


Feel

by breathtaken



Series: Love Me, Love My Dog [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Otherkin, Puppy Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 13:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3693857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I was thinking about your – dog thing. When you told me it wasn’t a bedroom thing. Was that the truth?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feel

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [CPFics](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/CPFics) for xyr help.

After that dinner together, d’Artagnan’s life quickly rearranges itself to include Constance as much and as often as possible until they’re basically living in each other’s pockets, d’Artagnan picking her up from her shop slash office whenever his shift patterns allow and walking her back to hers, falling into bed for an hour or so and getting up again for dinner, and then back to bed to have each other for dessert.

Constance is a proper adult. She’s got her own flat and a proper job and even a savings plan, and although d’Artagnan does love his housemates it’s nice to have some space just the two of them.

Especially since Constance informed him, her face a mixture of amusement and embarrassment, that he’s… well. _Loud._

He’d honestly never thought about it. Back home there was always time and space and privacy to be found, and though on one level he _is_ aware of the sort of noises that come out of his mouth, and their frequency and volume, he’d never connected that with the fact that shared houses have thin walls, and however fond he might be of his friends that doesn’t mean he wants them to know how it sounds when he comes.

Which means he’s suddenly barely at home; and though he tries to sit at Athos’ feet one morning for fear he’s neglecting him he just can’t make it stick suddenly, has far too much nervous energy to just relax the way he normally does – not to think of Constance – and Athos sees that at least, he always does, and doesn’t make d’Artagnan feel guilty for just climbing into his lap instead, swinging his legs over the side of Athos’ chair and chattering on about Constance’s business, how she went from being her ex-husband’s employee to setting up her own shop and taking easily a third of his clients with her, and how proud of her d’Artagnan is.

He quickly becomes aware he’s babbling, but Athos genuinely doesn’t seem to mind, just smiles indulgently and carries on petting him – and it’s _that_ after everything else that settles him somewhat, the realisation of just how deeply he’s cared for, by so many people.

He goes to work for the late shift with a spring in his step, his good mood persisting even when he’s climbing the stairs to Constance’s flat at half ten that evening, exhausted and bedraggled – and lasting until she makes him a cup of decaf and sits him down at her tiny kitchen table, the expression on her face pained, as though she’s about to say something which she knows is going to hurt.

“What’s wrong?” he says immediately, already tensing up in anticipation of the blow.

“Well,” she says, twisting her fingers together, psyching herself up. “I was thinking about your – dog thing. When you told me it wasn’t a bedroom thing. Was that the truth?”

“What? Of course,” d’Artagnan frowns – completely thrown, he doesn’t know what he was expecting to hear but it wasn’t _this_. “Why?”

“It’s just that things are… different. Not _bad_ different, but not what I expected.” Constance is flushing now, and d’Artagnan knows he’s just staring, too completely blindsided to say anything in reply. “I mean, you hardly talk, for one. And you do whatever I suggest, and I –” she stares at her fingernails – “well. There’s a lot of _licking_.”

“I thought you _liked_ that,” he replies – and he shouldn’t get angry, they’re having a reasonable adult conversation, but he can’t help feeling at least a little defensive.

Well. Maybe a _lot_ defensive, and he knows Constance is trying to be nice about this but he can’t help feeling attacked.

“No, I do!” she exclaims, reaching for his hand, running her thumb across the knuckles. “I really don’t mean it badly. I just want to be able to talk about it. I want to understand, if you’re feeling like a dog.”

 _That_ rubs exactly the wrong way, something abrasive on his heart – and d’Artagnan almost flinches with the force of it, just about stopping himself snatching his hand back. “That’s not what it’s like.”

“Would you explain it to me, then?”

He’s secretly, shamefully glad when Constance takes her hand back, and takes a drink from her own mug.

“I don’t… feel _like_ a dog,” d’Artagnan says, slowly, trying to put into words something he’s never explained – even to Athos, who’s always given off an air of knowing as much as he needs to already. “I just feel like myself. And dogs are like me. We… understand each other. And sometimes I want people to relate to me like they relate to dogs, because we like the same things. Does that make sense?”

He hates the way his voice goes small and high – anxious – but he can see his entire relationship with Constance flashing before his eyes; and a part of him wants to say, _look, I’m as human as anyone, I like playing video games and making stupid jokes and surprising you with soppy romantic gestures and watching the way your eyes light up. I’m_ normal _._

_I’m not, though, am I?_

“I think so,” Constance’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “I want to understand. So what does sex feel like, for you? What are you thinking?”

“I’m… not?” D’Artagnan frowns. “I mean, it’s not really _about_ thinking, is it, it’s about feeling. Instinct. Letting go.”

“Oh. Perhaps I’m thinking too much,” Constance laughs, though d’Artagnan knows her well enough to know it’s nervous.

“Oh? What do you think about?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” she replies, falsely breezy. “What we’re doing, what we’re going to do next. If I’m doing it right. If you’re enjoying yourself. I used to get – bored. With my ex-husband. Think about other things. Not with you, though. With you I sometimes worry that it’s all too good to be true.”

D’Artagnan reaches reflexively for her hand again, pressing it where it’s wrapped around her coffee mug. “Never.” He pauses, frowns again. “I didn’t realise you thought so much.”

“You don’t?”

“No. _Feelings_ , but not _thoughts._ ”

And then it hits him:

The only other time that he truly doesn’t _think_ of anything is when he’s in dogspace.

“D’Artagnan,” Constance says – _worried,_ squeezing his fingers, and he wonders what his expression must look like right now.

“Say something?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise –”

His throat’s gone tight.

He swallows with a click, and tries again.

“I didn’t mean to –”

 _I thought I could be_ _what you wanted_ , and he’s not going to _cry_ over this, _not –_

“D’Artagnan.” She’s getting up, walking around to sit in his lap, and he pushes his face blindly against her neck and takes a shuddering breath, smelling her, blinking back tears – why the fuck does he keep _smelling_ people – no, he knows why – as she puts a hand on his head and says, “Tell me. Tell me what it is.”

It takes him a few tries before he can get out the words, “I didn’t know.”

After that, nothing else seems worth saying, and he just lets her hold him and breathes her in – she’s holding him really, even though she’s the one in his lap, and the movement of her fingers against his scalp slowly calm him, everything easier in someone’s arms.

He doesn’t understand it, never has.

It’s not like other people don’t just want to be close to each other; it’s not like they sometimes don’t want to talk.

And yet he still seems to come up different at every turn.

He knows from experience he often doesn’t listen when he’s like this, and it takes him a few moments to realise she’s saying his name again, turns his head to kiss her neck, wants to lick but stops himself.

“Yeah?” he makes himself ask.

Constance twists around to look at him, so that he can see the intention in her eyes as she says, “Take me to bed.”

There’s probably something he should say. There normally is, in situations like this; but words have never come easily when he’s overwhelmed, and there are few times in his life he’s been more overwhelmed than this.

“And – don’t hold back. Do what feels right.”

 _Love_ , he thinks as he looks at her, beautiful and resolute, though he doesn’t dare to say it yet – he loves all too many people, with a canine simplicity, though Constance is the only one he wants to do _this_ with, and he’s heard all his life the dangers of too much, too soon.

So he buries his nose in her hair and inhales, long and deep, before picking her up bridal style and carrying her through to the bedroom – where he doesn’t say another word for what seems like hours, just does whatever feels right, just as she’s asked, licks and sniffs and pushes his face against her, letting her hold him close and make him whine and whimper, make him feel like there’s nowhere he’d rather be.

When she holds him afterwards, sated and exhausted with his head pillowed on her breast, and says, “I know you’re not a dog. You’re my puppy,” he’s still too deeply under to for the words to have any meaning beyond a sense of bone-deep affirmation; but as she leaves the next morning for work and leaves him luxuriating in her bed, sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains, he buries his nose in her pillow and realises he’s going to have to think – properly – about what this might mean, that instinct alone won’t be enough.

And that’s enough to have his heart sink, aching for his friends, his _pack;_ until he gets up and makes himself shower and dress through sheer force of will – he should have learned how to be alone by now, it’s one of those _life_ things – and get his things together, dithering in Constance’s kitchen for a few moments before drawing a large heart on the pad she always keeps by the phone and letting himself quietly out the door before he can change his mind.

The journey home has never felt so long; and by the time d’Artagnan gets to his front door he’s so distracted that it takes him a full thirty seconds to jimmy the lock sufficiently to actually get it open – someone was going to call the landlord, weren’t they, was he supposed to call the landlord – and he shoves it open with his shoulder to see Athos standing there in the hallway, barefoot in jumper and jeans, as if he’d finally taken pity on whoever it was who couldn’t remember how to open the front door.

D’Artagnan slams the door shut, drops his bag and barrels into him in one movement.

“Hey,” Athos murmurs, one hand coming up to gently scratch his head, and then just waits.

Athos is patient. D’Artagnan’s always loved that about him.

They end up stretched out on the sofa together, d’Artagnan resting his head against the soft wool of Athos’ jumper and pretending he doesn’t want to rub his face against it for all of a minute, before the urge gets too strong and he’s too tired to resist, and just does it anyway.

“I just need to think, for a bit,” he says to Athos’ chest, trying hard to push down the sudden shame – why now, when Athos _knows_ him, when nothing is different between them – and centre himself, start to work this out.

Athos hums his agreement, one hand over d’Artagnan’s hair holding him in place, as d’Artagnan takes a breath through his nose.

He’s not a dog. He knows that. He’s a human, and – a puppy. A human puppy.

But not like _that_ – or so he always thought.

He’s seen the websites, and all the things on them that made him uncomfortable – and not in the good way – but now there’s _Constance_ –

_You’re not a dog. You’re my puppy._

“Is it normal not to know if you want something?”

Athos turns his head to look at d’Artagnan, in only mild surprise, and takes a moment before he answers, “In my experience, people never know what they want. But they always know what they _don’t_ want.”

“That… makes sense,” d’Artagnan agrees. He can think of, oh, three, four, five things from those websites he’s sure he doesn’t want, now or ever.

But there are other things – and the idea of Constance _collaring_ him, of calling him her _good boy_ while he –

No, he really shouldn’t be thinking about those things while he’s practically lying on top of Athos.

Which leads him onto several more questions, all of them awkward.

D’Artagnan takes a deep breath and spits the first one out:

“My dogness. Is it a kink?”

The following few seconds of silence are almost enough to make d’Artagnan wish he’d never asked.

“I can’t answer that for you,” Athos says at last. “But bear in mind that not all kink is sexual.”

“Okay.”

Perhaps it doesn’t matter, then, either way. He’s just him, and he likes what he likes, and and all this thinking – well no, it _is_ helping, as are his questions, but you can’t know everything this way. Some things you just have to _feel_ , and decide.

“And… the collar.” D’Artagnan hopes to God Athos can’t hear the embarrassment in his voice. “Would you mind if I –”

“Puppy _._ ”

Athos stops him with a word; and d’Artagnan snaps his mouth shut, grateful beyond measure that Athos doesn’t need him to finish that sentence.

“It’s _your_ collar, to do with as you please. I don’t own you, none of us do. You’re still a person.”

“But you gave me it,” d’Artagnan argues – and he’s not sure why he’s pushing this but the collar was from _Athos_ , surely he shouldn’t act like it wouldn’t _matter_ what –

“ _D’Artagnan._ ”

 _That_ gets his attention; he sits up, staring down at Athos, whose expression is unreadable.

“I gave you a gift. I did _not_ collar you.”

D’Artagnan winces.

_Fuck._

“No – I know, I _do_. I’m sorry.” He waves his hands around in an empty gesture, casts about for how not to say _I just want someone to tell me what to do so I_ _don’t_ _fuck it up by myself._ “I’m just trying to – make sense of all this.”

Athos sighs and levers himself up a little until he’s sitting too, puts an arm around d’Artagnan and pulls him close again. “Believe me, I can empathise. But even if you were my sub, I still wouldn’t be able to do that for you. Decide what you might want, and then what you want to ask for.”

“Yeah.” It’s fair enough; and he does at least feel better for having someone else confirm what he probably already knew. “Thank you.”

He looks at Athos speculatively, for a moment not sure if he dares – but _fuck it,_ he decides, and leans in to lick Athos’ face, one short swipe of his tongue just above the line of his beard.

For a moment, Athos just looks at him – and maybe the d’Artagnan of even a month ago would have been horribly embarrassed, convinced he’d overstepped, but he just finds himself grinning.

“I’ve got to get ready for work,” Athos finally says, getting up from the sofa and leaving the room, his face a picture of poorly-concealed amusement.

D’Artagnan spends a few more minutes sitting and grinning to himself before taking a deep breath and going up to his bedroom, and starting to make a list.  


End file.
